


Fingers Too Numb to Feel

by mountainsbeyondmountains



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 20:56:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9515561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mountainsbeyondmountains/pseuds/mountainsbeyondmountains
Summary: She didn't look like a murderess.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I know many others have done this whole concept much better but it's fic, so who gives a shit, I wanted to write it.   
> I know nothing about anything police related besides what I've picked up from Brooklyn 99 so forgive any errors.   
> Title from "Love is Blindness" by U2.

Jon couldn't help but think that she didn't look like a murderess. He said so, in gentler words, to Mormont. They looked at her through the one way mirror of the holding cell. Alayne Stone wore the handcuffs like elegant silver jewelry around her thin white wrists. Her eyes were sleep smudged, inky hair tangled. She looked uncertain, and was still wearing the pajamas they'd arrested her in.

"I don't care how vulnerable she looks," the precinct captain growled. "Her fiance's been mauled by his own dogs, and her... _guardian_... has jumped off a roof a week later? It's suspicious, Snow, so give her your best shot."

Jon nodded and entered the holding cell. Alayne immediately fixed him with her cloudless blue gaze. Something about her coloring seemed off to Jon- that dark was too intense to be natural when one considered her fair skin and eyes.

He sat across from her and she straightened her already impeccable posture. "I'm Officer Snow. Can I get you anything?" Jon offered tentatively. "I know you've been in here a while."

"Seventeen hours. Nearly eighteen," Alayne supplied. 

"I'm sorry about that, but it's protocol."

"I also know that protocol says you have to release me after twenty four hours unless you scrounge up some evidence before then. Which you won't, because I didn't do anything. But I will take your jacket, if you don't mind. Looks warm, and you keep it pretty chilly in here."

Jon shrugged off the sheepskin coat and realized she was right. He shivered, emptied the pockets and placed the coat around her shoulders, not without some awkwardness. She was disarmingly pretty. But, Jon reminded himself, it didn't meant she wasn't a cold-blooded murderess. After all, to borrow his superior's word, the whole thing was _suspicious_. 

"I'm sorry about your recent losses," he said. Alayne nodded, warm as frostbite.

"It's been an incredibly tough time. Ramsay and I were supposed to be married. And I loved Petyr like a father. All I want to do is grieve in peace and yet I find myself being interrogated."

"Some say you weren't too happy about your engagement. Others say Mr. Baelish had no reason to kill himself. That he was on top of the world."

"On top of the world?" Alayne echoed. "A little insensitive, considering the roof-jumping circumstances, Officer Snow."

Jon winced. "You're right."

"And besides, cold feet is no reason to kill anybody. Not that Ramsay was murdered. He should have tried feeding his dogs more often. What else did he expect, really?"

"Well, what about Mr. Baelish?"

"I knew him better than anyone in the world. Secretly, he was inconsolable about Lysa's death. As much as it saddens me, his choice comes as no surprise."

Another cold case, Lysa Arryn's death. This Alayne Stone seemed to attract death as much as roadkill attracted carrion.

"Your alibis are solid," Jon admitted. "My commanding officer says you're a slippery fish, Miss Stone."

She smiled for the first time then. It was brief as a comet's flash across the sky, and Jon immediately wanted to glimpse it again. "Don't worry, Officer. If there's one thing dear Petyr taught me, it's how to cover my tracks."

 

At the end of the twenty four hours, Alayne Stone walked free. She stopped at Jon's desk on her way out, and handed him his jacket. "Thank you," she said. "You were the only one here who wasn't a total brute." She swooped down, brushed her lips against his cheek, whispered, "Check the pocket."

He felt around, and emerged with a scrap of paper with a series of digits- a telephone number. He looked up to ask Alayne why, but she was already gone. He held the paper in his hand, knew he ought to throw it away. She was trouble, wrapped in bad luck and tied up with a neat bow. But he still didn't believe she was a murderess.


End file.
